


The Guilty Plea

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Behind the Scenes, Episode Related, Legal Drama, M/M, POV Original Character, Prom, References to Homophobia, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian is not a man with many illusions left, but sometimes life can still punch him in the face.  This story starts within seconds of Brian realizing Justin might die from the bashing in the garage and continues through the legal process that resulted in Chris Hobbs's outrageous slap on the wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Guilty Plea

The call came in at 9:52 p.m. The 911 dispatcher who took it had only started the job just that afternoon. She’d handled a few calls, the most serious of which were from the wife of an elderly man who was having a heart attack and a sales clerk at a 7-Eleven who’d just been robbed. She was looking forward to going home and watching the latest episode of “Survivor.” There were only eight minutes left before her shift was over and her replacement arrived when the phone rang. 

“Get a fucking ambulance here NOW!” the man on the other end of the line shouted at her. His voice was breaking. She took a deep breath, trying to recall her training. It was difficult; she’d never in her life heard another human being sound so desperate. All the mock calls that were used in training were done by actors. No actor can replicate _true_ desperation. True desperation springs from a place in the soul inaccessible in the absence of terror. 

“It’s okay, sir . . .” she stammered, looking around frantically for her supervisor.

“It is _not_ fucking okay!” the man yelled.

“Sir, please try to stay calm. I need to get some information . . .”

“Omni Hotel, parking garage, section B . . . Hurry the fuck _up_!”

Her hands were shaking as she tried to type a dispatch to the downtown station; she kept needing to delete and rewrite. The version she finally sent contained the hopefully-decipherable word “Ambolinz.”

“Is somebody injured?” she asked.

“JUST SEND THE GODDAMN AMBULANCE! My boy . . . my friend’s going to die! Jesus fucking Christ! He was hit in the head with a fucking _bat_. . .”

“Sir, do you believe a crime has been committed?” Fuck, was that even a question she needed to ask? Regardless, the answer was pretty obvious. Duh, Amber, she thought. 

The caller had been relatively calm given the situation, but he was rapidly falling apart. He’d been reduced to a groaned litany of “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. . .”

“Is your friend conscious, sir?” she asked as her replacement walked in the door. She gestured to him urgently and covered the mouthpiece.

“Harry,” she whispered. “I don’t think I can handle this . . .” Before she could finish her sentence, he grabbed the phone out of her hand.

“Sir, an ambulance is on the way,” he said evenly. “Where is the wound?”

Even though she was no longer on the phone, she could hear the man’s frenzied voice.

“Do NOT move him,” Harry said kindly, but firmly. “He may have a spinal injury. He’s probably in shock, cover him with something – anything you have handy. Try to keep talking to him . . . He’s unconscious? It doesn’t matter. Keep talking, and try to keep your voice as calm as possible. Your name? Brian Kinney. Relationship to the victim? Friend. Did you see what happened?” The caller must’ve answered in the affirmative because Harry covered the mouth piece. “Sounds serious,” he said. “Young kid. Perp still at large. Call the dispatcher for the State Police, tell her it’s urgent.” He uncovered the mouthpiece. “Sir, can you hear sirens? Okay, good. Just stay on the line until the EMTs get there, and try to stay calm.” The whole time he was speaking, Harry typed so fast that his fingers were a blur.

After another minute or so, Harry hung up the phone and scrubbed his face with his hands. “The Omni,” he said wearily. Suddenly he looked up with an alarmed expression. “Isn’t there a prom there tonight? Tell the Staties they need to get the kids and hotel staff out as quickly as possible. Jesus Christ. What a fucking mess. Welcome to life as a dispatcher, honey. You did a good job, now go home and watch some T.V., but _don’t_ drink. We’ve lost too many dispatchers to the bottle.” He smiled sadly, and she nodded.

“‘Night,” she said and left wondering if maybe she wasn’t cut out for this job. Harry had read her mind. Fuck “Survivors.” All she wanted in the world was a volka and tonic. Or three.

* * * *

Carla had always had a thing for 1920s Chicago. (“The Untouchables” was her favorite movie of all time) so she would’ve liked nothing more than to gawk for a while at the Omni’s lobby, with its crystal chandeliers and grand piano and plaster art deco details, but alas she had a job to do.

“Ready?” 

She tore her eyes away from the illuminated fountain and nodded at her partner.

“Alright, on the count of three . . . one, two, _three_.”

Their guns drawn, the officers moved as quickly and quietly as they could in the direction of the dance music blaring from the ballroom. Neither of them looked forward to doing what they had to do. So much for those magic memories.

“Give me the description again,” her partner whispered as they ran noiselessly down the thickly carpeted hallway.

“Witness said he’s white, tall, sandy blond hair. Name’s Chris Hobbs. The others are canvassing the garage. Apparently they found a weapon, but they don't know if it's the only one.”

“Anyone know where he is?”

“Nope. That’s why we’ve gotta get these kids outta here.”

“The other kid gonna be available for a sketch tonight?”

“The witness isn’t a kid, and I don’t know. EMTs say he’s in shock.”

They reached the white and gold doors of the opulent ballroom (right out of a scene from “Scarface” Carla couldn’t help noticing) and shoved them open on another count of three. As soon as they entered, her partner announced with his booming voice that everyone must leave quickly and quietly and in an orderly fashion. The music ended abruptly, and the lights came on. The kids squinted and blinked and then started whispering; some looked fearful, others merely curious.

“Is there a Chris Hobbs present?” Carla yelled, her eyes peeled for any sudden movement. She didn’t have to wait long when a young man broke away from the crowd and ran to a side entrance. Carla and her partner were after him in an instant.

“God,” she whispered as they ran. “Perps are so stupid – even perps who go to prep schools. Does he really think that door’s not guarded?” Just as she said the words, the kid collided with the unit’s two burliest officers. They had him pushed up against the wall and handcuffed before Carla and her partner could even join them.

“Chris Hobbs?” she asked. The kid didn’t answer and instead started crying with big gulping sobs.

“It was . . . it was . . . self-defense . . .” he stammered, looking with abject terror at the four officers’ faces.

“Ever watch ‘Law & Order?’” Carla asked. “Doesn’t look like it, otherwise you’d remember that you have the right to remain silent because anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law . . .”

“But I didn’t _do_ anything!”

“. . . You have a right to speak to an attorney. If you can’t afford one, a public defender will be appointed . . .”

She heard her partner snort. “St. James Academy? His daddy probably _is_ a lawyer.”

“You can’t do this!” the kid shouted wildly. “I want to call my dad.”

“See?” her partner said with a smirk. “What’d I tell you?” He turned to the blubbering kid. “So which is it, Edgewood or Mt. Lebanon?”

“Edgewood. Please, I want to speak to my dad!”

Carla almost felt sorry for the kid who was sweating and shaking with a face tinged slightly green. Little did he know that body language can also be used against you in a court of law, and everything about the kid said “guilty as hell.” He might as well be wearing the words on a pin on his lapel along with his corsage’s wilting carnations.

“Listen,” her partner said. He was stone-faced, and his voice was low and vaguely menacing. “Here’s how it goes. I don’t know who you are, where you come from, what kind of salary your dad makes, or how many square-feet your fucking McMansion is; you’re gonna be treated like everyone else, which means first we’re gonna put you in the backseat of a patrol car. Then we’re gonna take you downtown, book you and print you, interogate your guilty ass, and _then_ you can call daddy. Oh, and by the way? It’s still your only call even if you get an answering machine, so you better hope mommy and daddy are at home and not out getting plastered at the country club.”

He smirked at Carla, and she rolled her eyes fondly. He’d grown up in the worst of the inner city’s shithole neighborhoods, which meant he didn’t have much sympathy for whiny rich kids. ‘Specially ones wearing a tux and a ruby prep school football ring.

* * * *

“What the _hell_ is going on here?!”

Robert Hobbs had never before seen the inside of a real, live police station, but it looked just like the ones on T.V., which meant it didn’t feel _completely_ foreign. Same institutional concrete block walls painted a drab but inoffensive light blue. Same ancient telephones on metal desks strewn with papers and files. Same clusters of unsavory individuals whispering in corners and large black women dressed in their church finery weeping into soggy Kleenexes. But familiar or not, it was certainly _not_ a place he’d imagined picking his son up at on his prom night.

“Tell me right now!” he shouted at the impassive desk clerk. “Where is my son? What have you done with him? I demand to see him this instant. Where’s the chief?”

The woman behind the desk barely took a moment to lift her eyes from the trashy newspaper she was reading, and when she finally did, she met his gaze with a bored, faintly contemptuous expression.

“What’s the name?” she said and snapped her bright pink gum.

“Hobbs, Christopher Mark Hobbs. I must see him immediately. His mother’s in the car. She’s beside herself.”

The woman arched a well-plucked eyebrow. “Hobbs, huh? Tall kid. Snotty attitude. Talk to the bondsman.” She gestured with her chin in the direction of a large bald man in a badly fitting suit. “Bart, the rich kid’s rich father is here,” she called to him.

Robert bristled, but he’d dealt with these kinds of people before and knew he’d have better luck reasoning with a grapefruit. He held out his hand to shake Bart’s, but the man cheerfully ignored it.

“Your boy’s been arrested,” Bart said matter-of-factly. “Got the initial police report right here.” He rooted around in a battered briefcase with a sticker on it reading “Bart’s Bonds” and pulled out a piece of paper that looked like it’d been in someone’s pocket. He handed it to Robert who squinted at it in the merciless fluorescent lighting. He looked up disbelievingly.

“This says my son has been charged with attempted murder! This isn’t right! This _can’t_ be right! I demand to see someone in charge – anyone! Page them at home if you have to!”

Bart watched him with an expression of mild amusement. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t have all night. Got a murder in the sixth precinct. Here’s how this works. Arrest bond is $1 million. You sign a contract permitting me to put a lien on every piece of property and bank account you have in exchange for getting your boy outta here tonight and back into the bosom of his loving family.”

Robert gawked at him. “ _What?_ ” 

Bart didn’t stop and kept rattling through his instructions. “Since it’s Saturday, your kid won’t be arraigned until Monday; that’s when a judge’ll determine the final bail amount – and don’t expect it to go down. Usually the amount goes up, ‘specially for defendants with bucks. For folks like you, anything less than a mil is pocket change. After you sign the contract, you can leave him in or bail him out. Gotta tell you, some parents think it’s best to let their kids stay in for a night, maybe teach ‘em a lesson. Kids like your son are usually begging to be let out by breakfast. . .” 

A cellphone rang. Bart answered it and barked at whoever was on the line. “Jesus Christ, I _told_ you to refuse them a bond. They’re poor as dirt and dumb as pig shit. What they put up for collateral? A mangy pit bull? A blow-job from one of the skanky daughters? Damn it, Pat!” He hung up and thrust his ancient cellphone back in his pocket.

The whole time, Robert had been staring at him with his mouth hanging open. Everything was so surreal. It’s a cliché, but Robert really did wonder for a moment if he was dreaming. But then Bart cleared his throat impatiently.

“Main point of a bond is to make sure the guys who get out before arraignment show up at court. With a charge like your son’s, he’s not gonna get out with nothin' but a PTA.”

“PTA?” Robert said. He suddenly felt helpless in this world of strange acronyms.

“Promise to appear,” Bart replied. “Bonds make sure they don’t miss their court dates. Miss a court date, and the collateral plus interest’s mine. You’d be surprised how many punk kids are willing to throw their families under the bus and take off. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Only results in a re-arrest warrant, another felony charge, and more money for yours truly.”

“Felony charge?” Robert said weakly. “He’s only a boy.”

Bart gave him a whatcha-gonna-do shrug. “A boy who almost killed someone. Now here’s the contract. Vivian over there’s a notary public; she’ll witness the signing.” He nodded in the direction of the gum-snapping desk clerk.

Robert’s hand was shaking so hard that he dropped the pen twice. His fingers felt as boneless as rubber. His signature was all but illegible. And then, like magic, his son was escorted through a dented metal door. He was still wearing the tux he’d left the house in just a few short hours ago, but it was rumpled and his collar was unbuttoned. His eyes were red and puffy. He’d obviously been crying.

“Dad!” he cried out and tried to go to him, but the guards were still undoing his handcuffs. He started to babble at his father, but Robert held up his hand.

“Not here, Chris,” he hissed. “Not now. Wait until we’re in the car. Now come on.” He couldn’t get out of there fast enough, but most of all he couldn’t wait to get home and have a Manhatten. Or five.

* * * *

“ _Attempted murder_!” Attorney Herbert O’Keefe exclaimed. “Jesus, Mary and divine St. Joseph! It’s all over the news. What the hell happened, Bob?”

Robert sighed. He hated being called Bob, especially by someone he was paying a fortune to retain. It was Sunday morning. Ordinarily he, Sarah and the kids would be having brunch at the Club. Every fiber of his soul ached with fear and exhaustion. He’d spent the night trying to hold it together for Sarah’s sake. She was fragile even at the best of times.

“He won’t talk about it, but the police report . . .” Robert handed it to his attorney “. . . says he deliberately hit some kid in the head with a baseball bat. Jesus, Herb! There has to be some mistake. Maybe they arrested the wrong kid. Maybe someone set him up . . . Chris is a _good_ kid. He’d never try to _kill_ someone!”

O’Keefe took a long time to read the report, chewing on his thumb and frowning deeply now and then. “Shit,” he said. “One of the arresting officers won Cop of the Year in ’99. The D.A’s office thinks the sun shines out his asshole. They love parading around the fact the force hired a poor black kid from the projects. I’d hoped it was one of the barrel’s bad apples. No such luck.”

“May I smoke?”

O’Keefe looked up with a surprised expression. “Didn’t know you did,” he said. “Don’t you run those crazy marathons through the desert or something?”

Despite himself, Robert chuckled. “I run the Memorial Day 5Ks and usually end up having to walk half the way. Golf’s hardly an aerobic sport.” He’d stopped at a Cumberland Farms and bought a pack of Marlboro Lights on the way to O’Keefe’s office. He took off the plastic wrap and pulled out a cigarette, but his hands were shaking too hard to light it.”

“Damn it! Son of a bitch!”

O’Keefe got up and walked around his massive desk. “Give me that, Bob,” he said, and Robert handed him the lighter. O’Keefe cupped his hand around the flame and held it up to the tip of the cigarette until it ignited. Robert inhaled deeply and only just barely suppressed a cough. He used to smoke in business school, but he’d gone cold turkey when he met Sarah. He nodded at the report in his O’Keefe’s hand. “Go on,” he said, with grim resolution.

O’Keefe settled his meaty buttocks on the edge of his desk and resumed frowning at the report.

“Shit,” he said again and sighed. “There’s an eyewitness, not to mention the victim. By the way, I called the hospital before you came over. The kid’s in a coma. Listen, Bob, you and Sarah are going to need to prepare yourselves. If the kid dies, the attempt charge is going to be substituted with straight-up murder.”

Robert covered his face with his free hand and started to cry.

O’Keefe sighed. "There's not even a glimmer of hopeful news in that report. Often you can poke holes in an eyewitness’s story, but not this one. The eyewitness was a friend of the victim and saw the whole thing up close. I’ll send my investigator to the garage. He’ll check out the lighting, the positioning of the pillars, that kind of thing . . .”

“It was dark!” Robert said indignantly. “It’s night! It’s a parking garage! It _had_ to be dark!” He could feel himself becoming unhinged. The cigarette’s ash fell on his knee, and he brushed it away with a muttered “fuck!”

“That’s what he’ll be looking for," said O'Keefe. "Bob, go home. Your family needs you, and you need to get some rest. I’ll take things from here.”

To O’Keefe’s obvious surprise, Robert stood and pulled him into a fierce hug. “I’ll give you everything,” he croaked. “ _Everything_. Just make this go away. Please. You’ve got to promise me. You know how Sarah is. You know how Chris is her baby. She won’t survive this.”

O’Keefe placed his hands on Robert’s shoulders and gently disentangled himself from his embrace. He went to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a business card. He handed it to Robert, who took it and frowned.

“A therapist?”

“And a damn good one,” O’Keefe said. “Call him. You’re all going to need someone to talk to.”

Robert put the card in his wallet and shook O’Keefe’s hand. “You’re a good friend, Herb,” he said, even though he wasn’t. _Both his parents are off-the-boat Irish_ , Robert used to say. _He may go to our church now, but I’ll bet he made first communion back in some shithole in County Kerry._

O’Keefe walked with him to the door of his brick colonial office building and opened it. The weather was beautiful – warm and breezy. Robert nodded to him as he left. The sun blinded his tired eyes. When he got back to his car, he put on his Louis Vuitton sunglasses. It was too early for a martini but, not for a Bloody Mary.

* * * *

Christ. He hated Mondays.

“Where’s my goddamn robe?” the judge bellowed, and after a moment, his cowed clerk scuttled over and helped him put it on.

“How many?” the judge asked as he straightened the robe’s collar in the mirror. Jesus, he needed a haircut. He retrieved his plastic barbershop comb from his desk drawer, spat on it, and tried to tame that goddamn cowlick. Too bad judges didn’t get to wear wigs in America.

“Thirty-five,” the clerk said meekly. He cringed as though he expected the judge to strike him. It was a larger number than usual, even for a Monday morning arraignment.

“Thirty-fucking- _five_? Jesus Christ. Call Rick and Norm. Tell ‘em I won’t be there till one. Goddamn it,” he muttered, fuming. “Can’t these scumbags stop getting themselves arrested for just one goddamn day?” He cleared his throat, and the clerk knocked on the door that led from the judge’s chambers to the courtroom bench. The head marshal banged the gavel.

“Order in the court!” he boomed, and the audience in the gallery fell silent. “Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Scarrpaleno presiding. Good morning, Your Honor.”

“‘Morning,” the judge grumbled his reply. It may be morning, but there was nothing good about it. He looked over at the arrestees standing chained together near the door to lock-up. Christ. There was that whore _again_. She wasn’t that bad looking; why the hell couldn’t she get a _real_ job at Burger King or something. Oh, and there was that punk drug dealer who just got out after a five year bid. Welcome back, pal. The judge wrinkled his nose as the stench of sweat and piss and shit reached his nose. At least nine of the poor fuckers were detoxing. Another looked like he should’ve gone to the hospital first – his face had been beaten to a pulp. Clearly the other guy must’ve been in even worse shape. Most times the cops just looked at who was injured the worst and then arrested the other guy.

The judge turned away from the scum of the streets and looked at his list of PTAs and arrestees out on bond. He liked to do them first. If someone could get out on bond, they probably weren’t _total_ fuck-ups. Some might even have jobs they needed to get to. Imagine that.

He raised his eyes and glanced at the packed gallery over the rim of his glasses. Typical group. A scrub-faced young reporter, fat women squeezed into ghetto clothes at least four sizes too small; frail, trembling crack whores; teenaged boys slouched in their seats with “fuck you, man” written all over their faces, and men of indeterminate age (looked 40, but were probably 20) trying to look like gang bangers with their pants halfway to their knees and hoodies shadowing their faces. And then there were the criers, some of them victims and some of them slutty-looking girlfriends. The victims and their families looked exactly like the perps. Poor, fat, dumb as pig shit. It was impossible to tell them apart.

The judge sighed. He’d been doing this job for twenty-two years. At first it had made him depressed. Then it had annoyed him, and now it just bored the shit out of him. Always the same damn thing . . . hey! The judge adjusted his glasses. Now _there_ was something you didn’t see every day in a court of common law! The man in the gallery who’d caught the judge’s eye was well-groomed and handsome, wearing a tie and a fancy suit. Next to him was a seemingly younger man, who was also dressed well (certainly in comparison to the street filth around him) in a sport jacket and button-up shirt. The judge arched an eyebrow. Interesting. The only question was whether they were perps or victims. The well-dressed man looked like neither, but his expression was fierce – and angry – which cut both ways. Hmmm. Interesting. Maybe the morning wasn’t going to suck as much as he’d thought it would.

He called a couple of names off the hoodies & hos list, but then one of them stunk so horribly that the judge almost gagged. It was so disgusting that he couldn’t even focus on the bail commissioner’s droned recitation of the facts of his arrest.

“$500,000,” he said with a bang of his gavel. “Next?”

“Um, sir. Your Honor?”

The judge looked down at the prosecutor with his shut-the-fuck-up expression.

“Yes, Mr. Wallace?” he said, his voice low and slightly menacing. He hated when the attorneys used up precious time with their useless blather.

“Um, sir. The thing . . . is um, sir, we only charged him with public indecency. He peed in a fountain. I’m . . . not sure – and I’m sure defense counsel would agree – that he even needs a bond. The state’s only asking for a PTA.”

The judge didn’t give a flying fuck – all he cared about was getting the man out of his courtroom as quickly as possible before the wretch made him throw up. He banged his gavel.

“I’m the judge,” he said, “and this is _my_ courtroom. $500,000. Next? Mr. Marshal? I said next. Get that fellow back down to lock-up. Now!”

The marshal gave him a dirty look, and the judge smirked at him. If they didn’t like the way the fucker smelled than they could just strip him and hose him off. UGH! The judge shivered with disgust at the thought of having to touch the guy at all. Damn heroin addicts.

“Next!” he bellowed. “Come on, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t have all day.”

“Next on the docket is Christopher Hobbs.”

Oh Jesus, Mary and divine St. Joseph. O’Keefe. Christ. Why oh why did he have to deal with O’Keefe at 9:30 on a Monday morning?

“Herb O’Keefe for the defendant, Mr. Hobbs, your Honor.”

The judge glared at O’Keefe, but then looked with surprise at his client. Now _there_ was something you don’t see every day. A rich kid with an expensive lawyer. The judge hadn’t had one of them in months. He scrutinized the boy: he was young, frightened-looking, dressed in a suit his mommy must’ve bought him just for the occasion. It was well-tailored but tastefully somber. How refreshing.

“Good morning, Mr. Hobbs,” the judge said. “Attorney O’Keefe. Prosecutor Wallace, please read the charges.”

“Attempted murder,” the prosecutor said, “and assault in the first degree with a dangerous weapon. Oh and your Honor? The state is considering adding another charge of disobeying an officer’s command and resisting arrest.”

A man in Nantucket pink slacks stood up, his fists clenched at his sides.

“You can’t do that,” he yelled. “You . . .”

“Counsel, who is that?” the judge asked trying to sound stern and disapproving when in fact he was thrilled by the spectacle. This is how it should always be. Well-dressed people with shady attorneys – not those bumbling do-gooder Public Defenders and their hoodlum clients.

“Sir, if I may,” O’Keefe said. “The gentleman is my client’s father. Let me talk to him for a moment.”

“Don’t take too long, Herb,” the judge said. “I’m having lunch at the Templeton with Rick and Norm.”

“Gotcha, Your Honor,” O’Keefe said and went to escort his client’s father out of the courtroom.

To kill time, the judge asked the prosecutor what he thought of Sunday’s game.

“Joe Pa pulled it out again,” the prosecutor said jovially. “Man, he’s one hell of a coach . . .”

“Excuse me, but do you mind if we conduct an actual legal proceeding?”

The judge and the prosecutor gawked at each other for a moment and then both turned to look at the man standing with his arms crossed over his chest, looking just as belligerent as the drug dealers chained to each other in the arraignment gallery. It was the man in the fancy suit; the judge could feel the fury and contempt radiating off him like body heat. Beside him, the guy in the sports jacket tugged on his sleeve and whispered “Brian, for heaven’s sake . . .”

The defendant, who was still standing before the bench, must’ve heard him because he whirled around with a look of terror on his face. The man in the fancy suit was still standing. He fixed the defendant with a gaze that cut to the bone.

“You,” the man said. “He’s still in a coma, you son of a bitch.” Only then did he let his companion pull him back down into his chair. 

The judge practically jumped for joy. _Finally_ he’d have an interesting story to tell Rick and Norm. It was they who had interesting jobs. The judge knew he was powerful, but what good is power if you can only exercise it over the poor and broken? Beside from his conviction that he was cleaning the scum off the streets, there was no real fun in actually doing it. No fun and no entertainment and nothing he felt really good about at the end of the day. He took a deep breath.

“There will be order in my courtroom!” he bellowed. “Another outburst, sir, and I’ll have my marshals march you straight out of here to your Mercedes. Do you understand me?”

Some of the scumbags in the gallery giggled, and the judge grinned. A couple of them even gave him a thumbs-up, but most seemed to empathize with the fancy-suit guy. Fuckers.

Finally O’Keefe returned and resumed his position beside the defendant.

“Well, well, Mr. Defense Attorney? Who do you have there?” the judge asked, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Let’s hear his sob story. Make it good.”

O’Keefe didn’t blanch at the judge’s irreverence. The judge would buy him a drink at The Bar on Friday, and all would be forgotten as it always was.

“Mr. Hobbs is an honors student at St. James Academy,” he said. He took a deep breath that puffed out his chest. The judge could hardly wait. O’Keefe always did that when he had a hand granade to throw. “And he’s got a football scholarship to Penn State.”

The judge felt the blood leave his face. Penn State? His beloved alma mater? The kid had been selected by Jerry and Joe Pa out of hundreds of players from all over the country? There was _no way_ the judge would order a high bond. In fact, he was tempted to give the Hobbs kid a PTA, and he would’ve if there wasn't a damn reporter present.

“Madam Bail Commissioner?”

“Your Honor, the accused has no criminal record. His family is intact, and he attends a prestigious private school. He attends church regularly and has a summer job as caddy for the mayor. All these facts weigh in his favor; nonetheless, he’s been charged with a very serious crime. His victim is also a young man and an honors student at St. James. He was accepted at several Ivy League colleges including Brown and Dartmouth, but has chosen to attend the Pittsburgh Institute of Fine Arts. He is currently in a coma at Allegany, and doctors expect serious and permanent brain damage. I’m recommending a two million dollar bond.”

Yeah, _right_ , the judge thought. Like that’ll happen. He just barely suppressed an eye roll.

“Mr. Prosecutor, what does the state seek?”

Mr. Wallace grimaced; he knew when he was fighting a lost battle. “The state seconds the commissioner’s recommendation,” he stammered, all the time wincing like he was expecting the judge to come down from the bench and slap him.

“A thousand dollars,” the Judge said, banging his gavel.

There was a gasp from the audience. O’Keefe looked shocked. Even he hadn’t expected such a low bond. Given the charges, he’d surely expected much more. Christ, Bart was going to hit the roof. The judge smiled to himself. Bart was an irritating son of bitch. 

“Thank you, Your Honor. Thank you very much,” O’Keefe said. He clapped his client on the back so hard that the kid stumbled forward.

“You owe me,” the judge mouthed at him, knowing that O’Keefe knew exactly what he meant. A bottle of the finest Scotch and a Cuban cigar. The Judge chuckled and then remembered fancy-suit man. He was gone, but his friend was still there, staring at the judge, his mouth hanging open. He looked even more shocked than O’Keefe had. The judge shrugged at him.

“What can I say?” he said. “Life’s not always fair. Better get used to it.”

* * * *

The call came at six a.m. a couple days later. It didn’t wake Robert. He’d been up since four, pacing though every room of his five-bedroom cul-de-sac house. The same house Bart would never get. The news had visibly ruined his day. No property liens for you, you bottom-feeding schmuck.

“The kid woke up,” O’Keefe said. “He’s going to live.”

Robert’s legs couldn’t hold him, and he dropped to his knees. “Thank you, God,” he groaned. “So that means the charges will stay as they are?”

“Well, not exactly,” O’Keefe said, and dread trickled through Robert’s veins. “The D.A.’s office filed a substitute information. They’ve added that bullshit resisting arrest charge, which is another felony.”

“Bastards! Isn’t attempted murder and assault enough? What do they want to do? Put my son away forever? Effectively end his life . . .” He stopped short feeling shame wash over him for a second. “I mean . . .” he stammered. “You know what I mean. I’m glad the kid’s going to be okay . . .”

“I didn’t say anything about ‘okay,’ Bob,” O’Keefe said. “I just said he woke up. There’s brain damage. They don’t know the full extent yet, but it could be significant.”

Robert shook as he used the coffee table to help him stand. He didn’t know what to say; he barely even knew what to think. The kid held his son’s life in his hands. Victim or not, he was his family’s enemy.

“Do you know his name? Anything about him?”

“His name’s Justin Taylor. Goes to the same school as Chris.”

Robert’s eyes closed. The lids felt as heavy as wet wool. “Jesus Christ, Craig and Jennifer’s son? They belong to the country club where Sarah and I were members before we moved to Edgewood. Why the Hell would Chris have a problem with him? Last I knew he didn’t even play a sport. He’s quiet. No friends. I doubt Chris has even crossed paths with him. Herb, there’s something wrong. Maybe the eyewitness was drunk . . . This can’t be happening. This _can’t be happening!_. Chris is going to be graduating in a couple weeks. Herb, for God’s sake! You know Chris!” He paused, wondering whether he should say what he was itching to say. “The Taylor boy is into art and theater and stuff like that, know what I mean? He’s . . . he’s kind of a . . .”

“A fairy?” O’Keefe’s voice was emotionless. Robert wished more than anything that he could see O’Keefe’s expression. 

“Yeah, I guess that’s what I mean,” he replied. “Like I said, he isn’t on an athletic team. I’d be surprised if Chris even noticed him, let alone wanted to _kill_ him. He must’ve done something to Chris. There’s no other explanation.”

“That’s why I need your son to talk to me directly – and confidentially. I need to hear his side of the story. Maybe he’ll have something we can base his defense on because he sure as hell needs one. Oh, and Bob? You should get yourself one hell of a good civil attorney. The Taylor kid’s going to be in-patient for at least another month and then out-patient for God only knows how long. And if he’s mentally impaired in some way? . . . All I’m saying is you’re going to need a litigation specialist and a damn good one too. Your insurance isn’t going to cover this, I can guarantee you.”

“Any suggestions?” Robert said weakly.

“I’ll make some calls,” O’Keefe replied. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. Court appearance. I’ll call you later.”

Robert hung up the phone and collapsed on the couch. He was soaked with sweat and shaking. God, he wanted a cigarette!

“Dad?”

Robert jumped up from the couch as his son entered the room. “Good news,” he said. “The kid’s going to live.”

Chris closed his eyes and took a deep uneven breath. “So no murder charge.”

“Oh, thank _God_ ,” Sarah cried, rushing into the room. She must’ve come downstairs when she heard the phone ring. She ran to Chris and hugged him, but Chris didn’t respond. His body remained rigid, his arms at his side. Sarah looked up at his face. His eyes were dead. “Chris, honey,” she said. “This is good news. Justin’s going to live . . .”

Chris wrenched himself out of her embrace. “And that’s a good thing?” he spat. “What’s going to happen now when he wakes up? He’s going to say it was me, and it _wasn’t_!” He looked like he was going to flee at any second.

Robert grasped his arm. “We _know_ you didn’t do it, sport,” he said. “But can you tell us why he’s going to accuse you when his real attacker is out there somewhere? It doesn’t make sense . . .”

“Because he’s a faggot, and he hates me! That’s why. I wouldn’t butt-fuck him, so he got pissed . . .”

“Chris, your language,” Sarah said as if a swear word was the worst thing that could happen.

“Sarah,” Robert said. “It’s okay. Chris has every right to be upset. He’s been framed by some . . . by some homo kid . . .”

“Craig and Jennifer’s son,” Sarah started to cry. “How will I ever show my face again? Jennifer and I share the same stylist . . .”

“Mom! Would you please just _shut up_! Who cares what your stupid hairdresser will think! My life’s on the line! My whole fucking life!”

Sarah crumpled to the floor. Robert went to her and glared up at his son. “It’s hard enough on her already,” he said. “Don’t make it even harder.”

Chris just stared at him with astonishment in his eyes. He opened his mouth and was just about to say something when the doorbell rang.

“No more reporters,” Sarah wailed. “I can’t take another reporter!”

Robert tied the sash of his bathrobe and went to the door. When he looked through the peephole, he breathed a huge sigh of relief. He opened the door, and five young men wearing jeans and football jerseys walked in, nodding respectfully as they passed him. As soon as Chris saw who they were, he ran to them.

“We heard it on the news,” Derrick said. He was one of Chris’s best friends. They’d played Pee-Wee football together, and both had gotten athletic scholarships although at different colleges.

“Yeah, the little fucker’s gonna live . . . Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Hobbs. I didn’t see you,” said Paul . . . or was it Steve? Robert couldn’t always tell who was who among his son’s many friends.

“How about we go to Denny’s to celebrate?” Derrick said.

Chris turned to Robert. “Can I?”

Robert frowned. In many ways, it was a bad idea. There’d be reporters everywhere, and O’Keefe had given them strict instructions not to talk to _anyone_ , let alone the press. “I don’t know,” he said hesitatingly. “How about we stay here, and have Tiffany go to Dunkin' Donuts. She got her permit last week. . . .”

“But dad,” Chris said. “I’ve been cooped up for days. I wanna go out for a bit. Spend some time with my friends. I swear I won’t talk to anyone about the case . . .”

“The completely _bogus_ case,” one of the boys said. Robert knew he’d met him before, but he couldn’t remember his name. “We’ll take care of Chris, Mr. Hobbs. If any faggot-lover comes within twenty feet of him, we’ll kick their ass.”

Robert shook his head. It was probably a horrible idea, but Chris was right. He wasn’t under house arrest. He needed to live his life as much as possible until these false charges were dropped. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But be back in a couple hours. Herb’s going to be stopping by around lunch.”

Chris broke into the first grin his father had seen in days and high-fived his buddies. “Sure thing, dad,” he said. “See you later.”

* * * *

“Wow. Nice place,” said Senior Assistant D.A. Jim Wallace as he and Grace Martinez, a junior prosecutor from his office, stepped out of the elevator. “Wouldn’t it be nice if our workplace looked like this?”

Martinez snorted. “Yeah, like that’ll happen. State’s cutting the budget _again_. Pretty soon we’ll be lucky to get post-it notes and paperclips.”

“Coulda always gone into private practice,” Jim said. “Nobody gets rich putting away mass murderers and drug dealers. . . .”

“Can I help you?” Jim jumped and then blushed when he looked at the blonde receptionist who’d addressed them. She was pretty, and pretty women always made him nervous. He ran his finger under his collar and wished he hadn’t worn a wool jacket.

“We’re here to speak to Mr. Brian Kinney,” he stammered.

She smirked at him. The world could swallow him whole any minute now. She pressed a button on an elaborate looking phone.

“Brian? There are a couple people who would like to speak with you . . . I don’t know, let me ask . . . Your names?” she said, covering the phone’s mouthpiece. Jim answered for both of them. “Brian? You still there? State’s attorneys Wallace and Martinez. Okay, I’ll bring them down.” She hung up the phone. “This way please,” she said and led them down a swank hallway past even swankier offices. She stopped at the door of a corner office and knocked. Jim heard an abrupt-sounding “yup.” “Here you go,” she said to them. “Please try and make it brief. Mr. Kinney has a meeting at two.”

Jim and Martinez walked through the door and into an office as big as the apartment he’d shared with four friends in law school. He couldn’t help but look around. When he heard a light, impatient cough, he turned to look at their star witness. “Attorney Jim Wallace,” he said, holding out his hand. “And this is Attorney Grace Martinez.”

The man was as impressive as his office. He shook their hands curtly then gestured to the two chairs before his desk. After they’d taken their seats, he sat down and tilted his leather chair backward in a manner that said quite clearly “don’t waste my time.”

“Okay. Right then. Um, let’s get started.” Jim said, pulling a yellow legal pad from his briefcase. He glanced at the man’s marble, gold-nibbed fountain pen and cringed as he pulled the cap off his Bic ballpoint. There was no glamor in state service. “Please state your name,” he said.

“Brian A. Kinney.” His voice was clear, and there was no smile in it. Jim started sweating again.

“Occupation and age.”

“Advertising, twenty-nine . . . no, thirty.”

Jim grinned. Finally a conversational foothold. “Must’ve just had a birthday, huh? Always takes me a while before my new age slips off my tongue.”

Mr. Kinney’s eyes narrowed. Oops. Birthdays were obviously a sensitive subject. Jim cleared his throat.

“Okay,” he said. Let’s get down to business . . .”

“Yes, let’s.”

Jim felt Attorney Martinez kick his shin. She was probably thinking the same thing he was: this guy’s gonna make a _terrible_ witness. Depending on what kind of suit he wore to the trial, the jury was going to either dislike him intensely or downright hate his guts. Thank God, at least he was handsome.

“Where were you on the night of the incident in question?”

Mr. Kinney chewed on his upper lip for a moment. It was clear he had no relish for this conversation. “The Omni Hotel downtown.”

“And why were you at the Omni Hotel?”

“Good question,” he said with a humorless snort.

Jim waited for a more illuminating answer, but when none was forthcoming, he asked again.

Mr. Kinney sighed wearily and for the first time since they’d entered his office, he looked away to regard the view of midtown outside his window. Jim was just about to ask the question again when Mr. Kinney answered.

“St. James Academy was holding its prom there. I came to dance a song with Jus . . . with the victim.”

Jim couldn’t help it when his eyebrows shot up and disappeared under his bangs. “Um, okay. How are you related to the victim?”

Mr. Kinney tilted his head back and laughed humorlessly. “I haven’t a fucking clue,” he replied.

Jim frowned. He hated it when witnesses played games. “Are you a relative?”

Mr. Kinney raised his head and looked at him mockingly. “I certainly hope not,” he said.

Jim’s frown deepened. “Okay,” he said. “Then are you friends?”

Mr. Kinney turned to gaze out the window again. He took a deep breath, released it, and then took another. “He’s kind of my boyfriend,” he said in a rush. “Mind if I smoke?”

Jim wanted to say no. He detested cigarettes, but based on the chilliness of their conversation thus far, he had no desire to argue. “Sure,” he said. He looked at Martinez, and she shrugged.

Mr. Kinney opened a silver case and pulled out a cigarette. He offered it first to Jim and then to Martinez. 

“Sorry,” Jim mumbled. “We’re not allowed to accept gifts from witnesses . . . .”

“Oh, come on, Wallace,” Martinez said. “It’s a damn cigarette. I doubt very much the governor’s office will make an inquest.”

Jim was just about to say something disapproving, but then he noticed that Mr. Kinney was smiling at her. He actually stood up and came around the desk so he could light her cigarette. Afterward he walked over to the windows and stood looking out with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Look,” he said without turning around. “I’m not going to do this question and answer style. I already did that with the police when they took a statement from me at the station that night. Here’s what you need to know. I danced briefly with Mr. Taylor at his prom. Afterward, he and I went down to the garage where I’d parked my Jeep. We talked for a moment, kissed, and then I got into my Jeep. He started walking away, and I watched him in my rearview mirror, and as I did, a guy with a baseball bat in his hand came up behind him. It took me a second before I realized what was going on. I . . . I called out Justin’s name, and he looked back at me, only to get bashed in the fucking head . . .”

Mr. Kinney's voice caught. He placed his free hand against the window and looked down at the floor while he took a final deep drag on his cigarette. He stood that way for what felt to Jim like a very long time, and then he walked to his desk and stubbed out the last of his cigarette in a cut crystal ash tray. Now that Jim knew he was gay, his office décor made sense - he'd heard homosexuals had a taste for vanity. Mr. Kinney sat down and tilted his chair back again, but this time his gaze was locked on Jim.

“I got out of my Jeep and ran at the guy with the bat. I wrestled it away from him and hit him in the balls. He doubled over and collapsed. I dropped the bat and ran to where Just . . . I mean, Mr. Taylor had fallen. I rolled him over and saw the wound on his head. I didn’t need to be a fucking brain surgeon to know it was bad. He was unconscious and bleeding. I called 911, and the ambulance arrived. I went with him to the hospital and then later went to the police station. After that I went back to the hospital, and that’s all you need to know.”

His voice was dead and monotone, and his eyes were cold enough to make Jim shiver.

“Did you recognize the assailant?”

Mr. Kinney nodded and retrieved another cigarette. He held it out to Martinez, and once again she accepted. Jim really needed to remind her of the D.A.’s office policies.

“His name’s Chris Hobbs. I recognized his face. I’d seen him a few times – a couple when I came to Mr. Taylor’s school to pick him up or drop him off and once when we – Mr. Taylor and I and a few friends - encountered him and his girlfriend outside a club on Liberty Avenue.”

“Any idea why Mr. Hobbs would’ve wanted to assault Mr. Taylor?”

Mr. Kinney snorted and then shrugged as though the question irritated him. “Because Mr. Taylor is gay,” he said challengingly. “And Mr. Hobbs is a sadistic homophobic asshole with a crush on Mr. Taylor that freaks him out.”

“Was there . . . did they have . . . um, I mean did Mr. Taylor and Mr. Hobbs have some kind of relationship?”

Mr. Kinney laughed, and for an instant there was a hint of actual amusement in his eyes. “If you call getting a fantastic hand job from a fag a relationship, then, yeah, they had ‘some kind of a relationship.’” He made air quotes, and Martinez barely suppressed a giggle. Jim turned his head and glared at her. She didn’t seem cowed in the slightest.

“So, they had a sexual encounter then.”

“Correct.”

“Do you know how long ago?”

Mr. Kinney titled his head to the side as though he had to think hard for the answer. “Hhhmmm,” he said. “Well, let’s see. Mr. Taylor was seventeen and a virgin before I fucked him, and I fucked him on the same night my son was born, so it would be after that. I doubt he even knew how to give a decent hand job before I taught him, so it was sometime later.”

For the second time in an hour, Jim wished the earth would open and swallow him whole. Great. So now their star witness was a child molester, and the victim foisted himself sexually on the defendant. Great. Just fucking great.

It was plea negotiating time.

He stood and held out his hand. “That’ll be all, Mr. Kinney,” he said curtly. He turned to leave without looking back. He was almost back to the reception area when Martinez caught up with him.

“Holy fucking Christ,” she said in the elevator, fanning herself with her hand. “I think I just saw the face of God.”

* * * *

“Word has it the victim remembers nothing.”

O’Keefe had his cowboy boots on the table. Jesus Christ, why did all the defense attorneys have to wear either a pigtail or cowboy boots or both? The Gerry Spence look was _so_ over.

“Herb, get your goddamn feet off the table,” Jim said. “And, yes, you’re right. The kid remembers absolutely zilch.”

O’Keefe grinned. He knew he had Jim by the short and curlies, which meant he didn’t bother taking his boots off the table. It wasn’t often he got to watch Jim squirm and beg for a deal

“Word also has it your star witness is a fag.”

“I believe,” Jim said, struggling to keep the moral high ground, “the politically correct term is ‘homosexual.’”

Hugh’s grin widened. “Really? Homosexual sounds much worse than 'fag' to me.” He shrugged in a whatcha-gonna-do kind of way. “Their choice. Who am I to stand in the way of the Gay Agenda?”

Jim closed his eyes and sighed wearily. “Are we _really_ going to play this game? I’ve seen you at our kids’ Little League games, and I know you’re not an asshole in real life . . .”

O’Keefe laughed out loud. “But I play a convincing one on T.V. Come on, Jim. You’re gonna lose this case, and you know it. You’re gonna put on evidence of a so-called motive, and the jury’s gonna cheer my client on. Think about it: I’ve got a dozen top-tier football players who’ll swear your victim had a crush on my client and was chasing him around, trying to get in his pants. What’s a poor straight upstanding Christian lad gonna do? Protect himself, of course! Come on. Not only will the jurors find him not-guilty, they’ll want to petition the governor to give him an award.”

Jim stood and began pacing. O’Keefe had him in a corner, and he knew it. That’s why he was gloating like a fucking victorious Mongolian warlord . . . or something. Goddamn it!

“What’s your offer?” he asked.

“Dismissal,” O’Keefe said without missing a beat. “And the expunging of all evidence that he was ever arrested for, let alone charged with, attempted murder.”

Jim almost swallowed his tongue. “What?! You’re kidding, right? That’s not even a good-faith offer. Jesus, Herb! Stop being a dick. The reporters would have my balls and then so would my boss. I’d rather go to trial than offer a dismissal!”

O’Keefe dropped his feet from the table and sat up straight. Jim stopped pacing and looked at him. O’Keefe was wearing his let’s-make-a-deal expression.

“This wasn’t an attempted murder, Jim, and you know it. You’ve _always_ known it. You over-charged. At the very worst, this was an assault with a deadly weapon. My client was provoked by a blatant homosexual display. He wasn’t in his right mind. He was incensed like any good Christian would be. You’re dead in the water with your dumbass attempted murder charge.”

“Okay then,” Jim said. “I’ll file a substitute information charging assault in the first degree . . .”

“Uh, uh, uh,” said O’Keefe shaking his head and wagging his finger at Jim. “Oh no, you’re won’t. Simple assault.”

Jim almost swallowed his tongue again. “Simple assault? Are you out of your mind? I charge people who sneeze on a public official with simple assault . . .”

O’Keefe put on a martyred face. “And whose fault is that, Mr. Assistant D.A.? It’s not my fault you over-charge the petty crooks and potheads. You put people away and give them a lifelong criminal record for things that not even the ultra-law-abiding citizens would consider criminal. You and your boss have made your bed, and now you’ve got to lie in it. Simple Assault and one year suspended with the right to argue.”

Jim shook all over. His face was on fire. He’d been angry at defense attorneys before, but never _this_ angry. He couldn’t even speak. He left the negotiation room and slammed the door behind him. He and O’Keefe were members of the same goddamn Bar! How could he do this? How could he sleep at night? The kid almost _died_ , and it didn’t matter if he was queer. That didn’t change the fact that he'd had a bright future, and now he’d be lucky if he ever regained use of his hand. O’Keefe would probably say there was an element of poetic justice involved. A hand for a hand job.

As soon as he entered the D.A.’s office, he went straight for his cubicle. He was going to put on his headphones and listen to Jimmy Buffett until he calmed down, but his plan was foiled.

“How’d it go?” Martinez asked.

He stared at her long enough that she frowned with concern. “What happened?” she asked.

“Looks like we’re gonna have to take this fucking loser to trial,” he replied, rubbing his face with both hands.

“Why? What was Herb’s offer?”

He looked up at her. “Brace yourself,” he said. “Seriously. He’s asking for simple assault and a suspended sentence.”

“Mother fucker,” Martinez said. “Shameless mother _fucker_. You told him to shove it up his fat ass, I hope.”

“Basically,” said Jim, “but I sent an email to the boss anyway, if for no other reason than to show him why I hate working with O’Keefe.”

“The boss is going to hate it. He’s got an election coming up. No way he’s gonna piss off the law and order voters.”

Jim sighed and looked away. He really wished she’d leave and let him listen to _Changes in Latitudes_. “Problem is, those same law and order voters are the same people who think queers should be rounded up and imprisoned – or even better, shot. Jesus, Grace. We’re gonna lose, and the boss wouldn’t like _that_ either.”

They stood just looking at each other, speechless, when the sound of an email arriving broke the silence. It was from the D.A. He took a deep breath and opened it. When he didn’t say anything, Martinez rested her hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” she whispered.

“He wants us to take the deal,” Jim said in a defeated voice. “Simple assault.”

Martinez turned around and kicked a trash can. “I can’t believe it!” she cried. “A kid almost _died_!”

“Yeah,” Jim said dully. “A _queer_ kid.”

“It shouldn’t matter if he’s a serial rapist! That was an attempted murder! You don’t get a baseball bat out of your car and go looking for someone and then bash their head in! How is that not clear intent? And it’s not as though he didn’t think he might end up killing the kid. When you swing a bat at someone’s head, you’re going for a kill.”

“Grace,” he said. “Please. You’re preaching to the choir. I’m gonna have to go back down there and tell O’Keefe that he has a deal. All we can hope for now is a decent sentencing judge who’ll make the defendant serve his time and not just let him get away with community service or something equally lame. Now, please. I’m sorry to be an asshole but I need to be alone for a few minutes.”

Martinez nodded and squeezed his shoulder. “Nice job we’ve got, isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll tell the victim and his parents, if you want.”

Jim shook his head. It was his case and his crow to eat. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ll do it.”

* * * *

Grace sat in her car for a while just staring at the construction on High Street. She didn’t have to do this. Prosecutors really only needed to apprise a victim of the deal they’d worked out with defense counsel. She could just drive away. She didn’t have to tell Mr. Kinney. Presumably the victim would do the job after Jim talked to him.

Goddamn it! It would be a very different story if the defendant was some poor, uneducated kid out of the ghetto. The D.A. would be throwing the book at him. But he wasn’t a poor, uneducated kid out of the ghetto. He was a white Episcopalian from Edgewood with wealthy parents and a prep school education, and he’d been “traumatized” by the victim’s sexual advances. The jurors would side with him. After all, they’ll say the victim was flaunting his homosexuality. He deserved what he got. That’s what happens when you’re an unapologetic deviant.

So the kid was going to walk away with a simple assault charge and a promise to clear his record of any indication he’d ever had a brush with the criminal justice system let only been charged with attempted murder. “Justice.” Yeah, right. Maybe it was time for her to fight the system instead of enable it. She was going to talk to the supervisor for the Public Defender’s office on Monday. Maybe they were hiring.

She sighed. She’d come all this way, she might as well do what she’d set out to do. Hopefully Mr. Kinney would offer her another cigarette.

The receptionist recognized her when she stepped off the elevator and arched an eyebrow. “Where’s the adorable little fellow you brought last time?” she asked, and Grace had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Poor Jim. He was never going to be popular with the ladies.

“I’m on my own this time,” she replied. “Is Mr. Kinney available?”

The receptionist regarded her for a long time with a dubious expression.

“Please,” Grace said. “It won’t take long. I just need to tell him about what’s going on in his . . . his boyfriend’s case.” She fixed the receptionist with a calm, steady gaze, hoping she conveyed her complete lack of hostility or prejudice.

Finally, the receptionist nodded and picked up the phone. “What’s your name again?” she asked.

“Grace Martinez,” Grace said.

The woman placed the call. “Brian? Sorry to bother you, but there’s a Grace Martinez who’d like to talk with you briefly. She’s one of the . . . Oh, you remember who she is? Right. Shall I send her down?”

The answer must’ve been “yes,” because she hung up the phone and looked at Grace. “He said he’s got a couple minutes – and when he says ‘a couple minutes,’ he means it literally. Do you need me to show you to his office?”

Grace shook her head. “No, I remember, thanks,” she said.

“Come in,” Mr. Kinney said irritably when Grace knocked on his door, and she entered feeling ridiculously nervous. 

He stood and shook her hand and then nodded at the chairs where she and Jim had sat when they’d previously met with him. But this time he didn’t return to his chair; instead he leaned against his desk looking down at her with an impassive expression. He looked tired and weary of the world.

“Do you perhaps have a cigarette?” she asked too timidly for her taste.

Mr. Kinney picked up the silver case from its place by the pen that probably cost more than she made in a week.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to accept gifts from a witness,” he said with a teasing smirk. “Jim won’t be pleased.”

“Screw Jim,” she said as he leaned down to light her cigarette. She took a long deep drag and released the smoke with an even longer sigh. “Moreover you’re not a witness anymore so you can give me your fucking car if you want.” She didn’t want to meet his gaze, but she did anyway.

Mr. Kinney arched an eyebrow. “Meaning what exactly?”

She closed her eyes and swallowed. Why had she thought this was a good idea? “Because the case isn't going to trial.” Even she could hear the defeat in her voice. “There’s going to be a plea.”

Mr. Kinney lit his own cigarette. “Something tells me I’m not going to like what you’re here to tell me.”

“Just please understand,” she said in a rush of words, “I think it sucks. It’s wrong, and I hate it . . . but the Powers That Be . . .”

“Let me guess: The Powers That Be lowered the charge to assault in the second degree?”

She looked away and took another drag on her cigarette. She wasn’t going to be able to look at him when she said what she had to say next. “No,” she sighed. “If only. No, the new charge is simple assault . . .”

“What the _fuck_ ,” he said. “Simple assault? You’re kidding me, right? Please say you’re joking. The asshole bashed Justin’s head in with a fucking baseball bat! I heard his skull crack when it hit him! I was _there_. I _know_ what happened. And you guys won’t even take it to trial? Please try your best to explain this to me!”

He looked like he was going to punch something, but then he took a couple of deep breaths and pulled himself together.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” she lied. She’d lost the courage to tell him that the D.A. didn’t want to go out on the limb for a homosexual – and anyway, she was pretty sure he’d figure it out for himself.

“He’s still in the hospital, you know. Have you and Wallace gone to see him? Have you seen what that sadistic fuck did to him?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, we went to see him,” she said. “But he doesn’t remember anything. We weren’t going to be able to use him at trial. You were the only one . . .”

“And I’m a hedonistic faggot. I’m sure the defense attorney dug up all kinds of shit that the judge would probably let him use to impeach me. The fact I go to gay clubs and get blown in the backrooms, right? Am I right, Attorney Martinez?”

“Grace,” she said heavily. “Call me Grace.”

He stopped his pacing and looked at her. His fierce gaze softened slightly when he realized she was just as unhappy as he was.

“Grace,” he said. “Well, Grace, this looks like the end of our brief association.” He smiled in a manner that could be described as charming if the smile had reached his eyes. “Pity. I was looked forward to watching you reduce Hobbs to a sniveling wreck.”

She gave him a little smile and stood up. He shook her extended hand.

“One for the road?” he asked, offering her another cigarette.

“Thanks,” she said and accepted it. The way he lit it told her he was forgiving her – maybe not her boss or even Jim-but her. Suddenly, she was glad she came.

“Take care of yourself,” she said, standing up and walking to the door. But then she stopped and turned back to look at him. “And your boyfriend too.”

He raised both eyebrows and was clearly trying to suppress a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I intend to.”

* * * *

The black car picked Herb up precisely at seven o'clock and deposited him at the door of the Hobbs’ residence twenty minutes later. There were balloons tied to the mailbox, and a large custom-made banner reading “Congratulations On Your Graduation” hung above the doorway through which he could see dozens of smartly dressed people sipping mixed drinks. Shit. He should’ve brought his own Guinness. Liquor went to his head too fast, and he was pretty sure getting drunk was a very _very_ bad idea.

“Herb!” Sarah cried as she ran out to meet him and greeted him with a big hug. “I’m so glad you could make it. After all, you made this night possible.” She was glowing with happiness, and her eyes sparkled with grateful tears.

Robert joined her and shook Herb’s hand enthusiastically. “Here he is,” he said. “The best goddamn attorney in the city . . . Hell, the whole goddamn state!”

Herb smiled when Robert clapped him on the shoulder and followed him and Sarah into the house. 

“There’s a bar by the piano,” Sarah said. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed his cheek and then bustled off to greet another guest.

Robert moved to stand beside Herb and watched the scene before them for a moment. There was Chris, sitting like a prince on an enormous white suede couch, his friends gathered around him, as, one by one, relatives and neighbors shook his hand and congratulated him on his graduation and scholarship.

Robert’s voice was rough when he finally spoke. “This party is as much a celebration of you as of Chris. We are forever indebted to you, Herb, and if ever I can be of any assistance – any assistance at all – please don’t hesitate to call me. You’re not just an attorney; you’re a dear family friend.”

Herb would’ve rolled his eyes if he thought he could get away with it. “Dear friend,” his ass. What a load of bollocks as his father used to say. He was still the same shady defense lawyer the Hobbs and their ilk looked down their noses at. Plus, the last thing he felt like doing was celebrating. The judge had accepted the plea and given Chris a measly two year sentence suspended with community service. Herb had shaken his client’s hand and said congratulations, but he hadn’t been deaf to the shocked, indigent cries from the victim’s side of the courtroom. Thank Christ, the victim’s family hadn’t been there. There was no way Herb was going to be able to face them, but he _had_ seen the state’s “star witness.” He was the same man Herb had seen when Chris was arraigned. The man hadn’t looked at Chris; instead he'd fixed his gaze on Herb. He never felt ashamed of being a defense attorney – and a damn good one – but he did that day. He’d looked away and let himself be embraced by Robert and Sarah. When he’d looked back, the man was gone.

God, he didn’t want to be at this fucking party! Everyone was celebrating the undeserved freedom of a cold-blooded assailant while his victim was still in-patient at Alleghany undergoing intensive therapy. Herb had heard they were going to give him his diploma, but a piece of paper was never going to make up for what’d been taken from him – the use of his hand, sleep without nightmares, a chance to have his suffering recognized and repented for. His last little scrap of innocence.

“Hey there, Herb.”

Chris had apparently extracted himself from his worshipful admirers. He shook Herb’s hand with both of his. Herb returned the shake, but what he really wanted to do was to tell the little shit that he was Mr. O’Keefe, and that what’s more, he didn’t want to be “Herb” to the likes of him or his family.

“Look, thanks a lot,” Chris said. “You did a damn good job.”

Oh Jesus, Mary and divine St. Joseph. What the hell did the kid know about his job? He certainly didn’t have a clue about his pro bono work representing the most pitiful of society’s cast-offs, trying to make the prosecutors and judges understand that the poor bastards might as well have just gone straight from the maternity ward to state prison. Why not? It would save people from having to recognize that such degradation and despair was an everyday fact of life for thousands in their city – not to mention the southwestern corner of the state where the stain of Appalachia’s grinding poverty seeped into Pennsylvania.

Fuck. He had to get out of there. O'Malley's was calling to him. He’d drink a few pints, play pool on the scuffed table and maybe, if he got drunk enough, sing a couple maudlin tunes from the Old Country. But before he left, there was something he _had_ to do.

“Step outside with me for a moment,” he said to Chris, who shrugged in feigned nonchalance. It was clear that he wanted to get away from Herb just as much as Herb wanted to get away from him.

They walked into a shadow along the side of the house, far enough away that no one could hear them. He stopped and turned to Chris. He felt his face turning red; he couldn’t help it. It was the Irish in him. He’d never had a poker face.

“Now you listen to me, Mr. Hobbs,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “The fact that I got you off with nothing but a little slap on the wrist, isn’t something I’ll ever take pride in . . .”

Chris straightened and gave him the same righteous look his father was practically famous for.

“ . . . You very nearly killed someone,” Herb continued. “Why? Because he scared the shit out of you. Why? Because you desired him.”

Chris expression turned indignant, and he opened his mouth to argue. Herb held up his hand.

“A young man’s had his life all but ruined because you are a coward, because you deemed him unworthy to exist. Well, let me assure you, Mr. Hobbs. If I was faced with the choice of deciding which one of you had come within an inch of dying, I’d choose you. You’re pathetic, and what’s worse, you’ll never believe it because you’re privileged with all the trappings our society values. You’ll live your life blind to your prejudice and hatred unless someone or something forces you to look in the mirror. I sure as hell hope that happens some day soon; it’s long overdue.”

Herb had grabbed Chris’s arm when he tried to leave and tightened his grip again when Chris struggled to escape.

“I’m proud of the work I do,” Herb said, his voice cracking with emotion. “But having to represent people like you is a blot on my soul.”

He shoved Chris away and started walking across the yard toward the road. Fuck the Hobbs’s car service. He’d call Patrick and tell him to pick him up at the Dairy Queen. And then later, once he'd had a Guinness or two, he’d silence the hall, hold up his glass, and toast Justin Taylor. It would give him no end of pleasure and might, just maybe, wash the last few sordid weeks out of his mind forever.

[](http://queerasfray.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/500/6949)

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could say this is entirely a work of fiction, but being a public defender, I'd be lying if I did. This is how "justice" is meted out in our society.
> 
> I'm new to QaF and just started a new journal for my new obsession. Come visit me at [Queerasfray](http://queerasfray.livejournal.com/).


End file.
